Long Fanciful Poems
Long Fanciful Poems. Below are the most popular long Fanciful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fanciful poems by poem length and keyword.
I love trees but I am not an expert…I just know they touch my heart…
Except for some maples, poplars and a few oaks…I can’t tell trees apart.
Because I’m not an expert…but still love the way they make me smile…
I would never be considered an arborist…but I am a dendrophile.
An arborist would have studied and understand the science of every tree that comes her way….but as a dendrophile…walking among the trees I’m surprised a little every day.
An arborist knows there are over 64,000 species of trees…a fact they have been taught…
As a dendrophile I look at all the trees in awe…and say,..”WOW! I sure do see a lot.”
An arborist…probably has some awe in him…but understands a tree’s creation
As a dendrophile, happily, I only have my imagination.
An arborist cannot make up stories about trees she knows may not be true….
but a dendrophile…we’re different…for that’s exactly what we do.
Since there is so much about the trees and the forest we do not understand…
a walk though the forest with a dendorphile…is like a trip through a wonderland.
A dendrophile walking in the woods…bathed in moonlight or in the light the day…
hears the trees whispering to one another…and wonders what they’re trying to say.
So we make up fables and fairy tales…some as fanciful can be..
about all that inhabit the forest…and about our friends the trees.
For instance arborist sees two trees close together and explains how they communicate, how they share nutrients…how it’s part of what the Creator and nature have planned…
A dendrophile sees the same two trees and says…
Aw look…they’re holding hands.
Certainly there is a place for arborists….
their profession is both beneficial and worthwhile…
But as for me…
I’m happy walking through the woods for the rest of my life…
one joyful dendrophile.
Southern Rata (is a stunning Kiwi Tree)
Red or scarlet harlots instead...a bucolic frolic..
Tranches spread as if bulbous branches have gorgeously bled..
Overpowering flowering towers glimmer…fanciful fairytale shimmers showering...
Such vim...swim on a whim..sprouting on an outing from their pouting wooden limb....
A delight..refining..shining bright.. defining.. these bizarrely beautifully gnarly trees...
Crimson collage..insisting snarling tendril darlings..timber tentacles twisting…a magical mirage....
Marooned yet cocooned in a festooned lagoon...wouldn't barter anything…
To swoon at the miracle..spectacular boon of Southern Rata ...
Sunshine grows men on ropes
Similar with metaphors and similes
And cold plastic smiles.
Slim, shiny, at first slimy, Then…
Then mass produced body index
Fat and hypertension deficit syndrome-o-matic.
Failure due to faulty, underfunded, cheap union labor parts.
Broken and glued
taped back
to the semi-flaccid meat bag’s parts
Ad nauseam,
But worth regurgitating
for the sake of curiosity’s infinite lives.
Will you spare a tired old man a dozen redbirds?
All dead and empty.
Ad nauseam.
Entering ourselves head first, strong
Into the green-blue gluttonous mausoleum nausoleum
With fancy golden embryo.
Embryo cold ,
with teeth chattering loose,
Broken from gnawing the misconceived development
Of a prenatal worm-child.
The background was aforementioned “Thus”.
Inter-missionary positions
on all seeing eyed pyramids
Connect myriads of the labyrinth.
Run for cover before the light breaks the shadow fault line
Of what is right and what is written
Because I can’t bear to tell you what is wrong.
Sunshine grows ropes on men
different from the same old, same old.
Mad at the world because like opinions and ideas and optimism
And a general surety of a done deal.
Nothing is relative to Uncle Certain.
Just Aunt Be.
Hollow minds can only feed hollow stomachs
From the, “Why did they even come here?”
Go back home to your party fanciful.
If you think it’s you then why are you still here
Under the tree that shades us from falling
Birthmark razorblade sweet tarts.
It all starts over and over.
Can you guess my name
Among my species I am a great dame
I am golden in color
I have in all the great seas, no competitor
I have a long fish tail
I look like one so frail
But I am made of might
Yes, indeed, I am the Queen of Fishes, from my due birthright
Apart from being golden
My eyes are always sparkling
My tail changes color by itself, so fascinating
And my whole being looks like one so brazen
I swim there, in the sea of wonder
The sea where angels, Gods, Goddesses do turn to
When they do want to take their due
A pause, from all of their toils and activities
I live there, in that sea, I do be all merry
I live there, admired by all, for I am a piece of beauty
Praised I am every time and then, by the Great Lord Himself
Oh such a grace it is, to have taken birth as the fanciful fish
Can you guess my name though
I shall tell you about it in time
I am the Queen of the wonder sea
And my name remains a secret, a great mystery!
I read other people's poetry and I wonder to myself,
Where do they conjure up their massive vocabulary?
The words I don't know, I write down; and I have quite a list.
Some of these English words, I know belong somewhere between here and Ireland, but maybe in another century, with Coleridge or Thoreau. But yet,
here we go. Betwixt, bemuse, besot, who writes like this?
I have looked up more fanciful, interestingly new words in a month than I knew existed, and I used to think I knew some words. Keep them coming, my Poetry Soup pen pals. I am fascinated, and learning a new vocabulary faster than I thought possible.
At faculty meetings people are asking, "What are you doing?" I'm looking up words, I tell them. Lots of eye rolling; these are teachers, and many, I am afraid, have not opened a book since college but you didn't hear it from me.
I'm a simple woman, not a snitch.
Cold front brings August respite
upon cusp of autumn quite
natural palliative to forget monetary plight
relieving spate of dog days of summer
seasonal crisp balm appeared overnight
evidenced of late by Jeeves
cool temperatures at night
temporarily bumping ugly
global warming with moonlight
sonata courtesy mother nature
perfect bonfire weather courtesy lignite
kept burning chaste cheerful pro bono
strong arm moored Sir Lancelot knight
sinewy physique, muscularly lean
apropos appellation applied Jack Lite
doubling up as Jack Frost
i.e. old man winter based
on Farmer's almanac
forecasters, who possess
sixth sense insight
predicting harsh winter, yeah right
as if standing atop shoulders of giants
towering, rivaling, overshadowing...
Jack and beanstalk re: fabulous height
seedy tale Aesop pose ghostwrite
ten and/or retold by Flora Annie Steel
fanciful imaginative flight
first appeared as The Story to delight
kids all ages of Jack Spriggins and
the Enchanted Bean in 1734 quite
similar to goose that laid golden egg
wishful thinking miniature
cogs and wheels spin
furiously at midnight
fantasizing escaping out
maws o' penury plight
accepting hand to mouth existence
experiencing pleasant distraction
as fall weather doth excite
reminding me seasonal change
could kindle potential playwright
within, which storyline outright
fabrication trumpeting rich mogul
comprising make believe webbed world
frees yours truly 24/7 nightmarish fright
one forlorn bummer groveling along...
holding transformative amulet tight
precious stone of malachite
imparting deep energy cleaning,
bringing healing powers that
powers love delight.
I've heard about the arrival of fanciful fushia strangers
but I've no fear of them and not worried about dangers.
They seem a bit nonsensical; funny the way they speak
To me, everything they say comes out sounding like Greek!
Maybe on their planet, peaches have three turquoise eyes
Could they be humans, just wearing an alien disguise?
I've never heard the haloed moon referred to as mother Mary,
nor of opulent opal oceans and a three humped dromedary.
I call them fluff nuggets; an accurate description, I think
Their gibberish makes me shake with laughter, quick as a wink
Life forms like these AI are manipulated by puppet strings
They're infringing upon planet Earth, inhabited by Earthlings.
*These are my thoughts and words, but if you take umbrage with
any of the lines, I'll throw Jan under the bus, cuz she started it.
she was an artwork in progress
like graffiti on a wall which covered
bricks in her head in the chakra’s colours
connected to the world with easel and brush
but the paint inside her was not quite free yet
too many restrictions had been imposed by
a socialized search for stability and adherence
of what others seemed to deem the norm of good taste
she blew up balloons with pigment dye figments
of her imagination and rose-tinted shards of mosaic
filled the room with fragrance of sandalwood and patchouli
and tied them to her body for levitation and consciousness
without any drugs she floated in psychedelic magic
engaged in lightness and transcended borders of nothingness
detachment rose to the ceiling but that was constructed
of glass and was so solid that she could not break through
thoroughly made it only allowed her to see hidden justice
while with helium and unnecessary laughter she clung
like a spider beneath herself and below shine through ascent
the Buddha above any suspicion had no chisel nor hammer
even Karma was out of reach for she was young and resilient
but over time the brush with delight dried up like a fig tree
without water shedding seemingly forbidden fruity melee
now insecure in impermanence she wished to be floored
only when she reminded herself that life was suffering
in itself did she come to the conclusion that eventually
the inflated globes of fanciful reverie would pop one by one and
bring her back to square one and attempt safe passage once more
20th July 2021
It was summer in the mountains,
Daisies, bees and poison ivy surrounding
The little creek where my feet swung down,
Swaying gently over the trickling water…
Betraying the heat with its coolness,
Its calm – serene like the world where I came from,
A world of laughter, beauty and grace…
Where granny worked and prayed,
Where mama didn’t see any shame in repenting
For sins that were taken away by the Savior,
The grace that remained when He went to heaven
To await the day when we would come to stay
With Him, in paradise… in praise, in eternity
Fading into the summer praises, the lupines
In colors of elaborate violet – dusty rose delphiniums,
Imperial hues of breathless roses, blushing beauties
Brilliant and bright, hoping for the moment when rain
Bruises the petals and suggests to them a joy
Far beyond the miracles invading breathless whispers,
Rainfall moments and sun, so alive it feels nearly timeless,
Blessing the leaves, silently fawning – mysteries
While all the world searches for the wonders of these
Gracious colors, admiring – honoring the beautiful,
My little cousin eating pies I created
With two chubby hands, pies two times the size
Of the pot pie pans that taught me the meaning of
Recycling… they were leftover trinkets from a mother
Who believed in me, she’d found her reason
But me … I was only happy to know the freedom
Creating mud pies on the banks of a creek that treated
Me like the wish for giggles, the craving for fanciful
Dreams who walk away from the heart
Misty eyed and prayerful, erasing the lost
Hopes, replacing them with promises
For a coloring book life… made from joy and hope,
Kindness that fills up the soul, a wildness
That comes from being that little girl who grows
Cousins from the mud pies she baked in the sun,
Urging them to gorge themselves with…
And, they still loved her, despite her baking skills!
Bridges connecting whims and age-old dreams.
Some wishes are esoteric like whimsical schemes.
Wishes like raindrops falling on a seed in thirsty ground.
Some take root, grow to fruition and astound.
Idle wishes fade into oblivion, sincere wishes become prayer.
Hopes based on desperation often leads to despair.
Faith that yesterday’s wishes will come true, based on desire.
Filled with passion and fueled within, by a burning fire.
Dreams of a chimerical paradise only a few will understand.
Fanciful or erotic, blurred with intent and are ill-planned.
There are secret hopes that we have held so high.
Wishes that lose their bright wings and cease to fly.
Shall I lament that yesterday’s wishes, did not come true?
Will I throw a coin in the fountain and wait for you?
Can a simple wish entice you to fall madly in love with me?
Would it create happiness for us and a life of ecstasy?
Yesterday’s wishes, like messages in a bottle cast to the sea.
All my wishes, yearning and longing, wont’ bring you to me.